Clues
by Fergus Mason
Summary: A small fic with one character - a cheerfully weepy Molly Blackett. This piece was written for constantlearner as a forfeit in a private challenge that, if I were to tell you about it, you would never believe us anyway. She has now asked me to share it here; I hope you enjoy it.


As usual it was a long time before Molly Blackett stopped crying. Her daughters drove her up the wall sometimes, especially Nancy, but when she waved them off on the train at the beginning of every term it was as if the light had gone out of her life. It was better now her brother was spending most of his time at home – or at least in his houseboat – and of course Cook was a constant, friendly presence, but for days after school started back the big house felt like an empty, echoing shell. So as soon as she got back from the station she had made a pot of tea, sat down and picked up a handkerchief.

Now she pulled herself together. Her no-longer-so-little girls would be half way back to school by now, and anyway the remains of the tea was cold. It was time to see what sort of a mess they'd left upstairs as they finished off their packing. Despite her grey mood she smiled. Just a few years ago she would have had to supervise that process herself, but now they could be trusted to remember everything they needed. She suspected most of the credit for that could go to Peggy. While not as formidably organised as Susan Walker always seemed to be, she was still a sensible girl who could keep even Nancy in line – more or less - when it counted.

The girls' room wasn't as overtly piratical as it had been a couple of years ago – the huge skull and crossbones flag that had once decorated the wall had come down at some point – but it still couldn't have been mistaken for the boudoir of a pair of aspiring young ladies. There were too many bits of boat gear scattered around, and a scattering of leaves on the floor raised suspicions about Nancy and the trellis outside. It would probably be at least a couple of years before the roses grew enough to stop the wretched girl from using it as a convenient exit.

Molly sighed and started picking up the clothes scattered on and around Peggy's bed. Blue shorts in that awful French serge and a faded brown Scout shirt, she supposed, weren't very ladylike, but given what the girls spent their summers doing she'd long since accepted that practical was more important than appropriate. She remembered, not so long ago, hearing them relate how they'd rowed demurely down river in their party frocks for Aunt Maria's benefit – both of them still damp from the river, and with their sodden bathers bundled under a thwart.

One of Peggy's stockings proved elusive – she eventually located it under the bed – but with the grubby detritus safely in the laundry basket she moved on to Nancy's bed. This, she wasn't surprised to see, was far more of a mess than Peggy's. Her elder daughter's clothes were practically buried under a deluge of junk – a knapsack, turned inside-out for no very apparent reason, and Amazon's tiller (she'd have to get her brother to put it back where it belonged) were two of the more easily recognisable items. With a resigned smile she restored the knapsack to its proper shape and dropped in a few pieces of odd camping gear – three tent pegs, a neat coil of string and a battered tin mug. No doubt there'd be an awful fuss when Nancy came home and went looking for it – she was sure she'd forget what she'd done with it all by the time the awful girl came home – but it was out of the way for now. Placing the knapsack on the floor with the varnished tiller she turned to sorting out the tangle of clothes.

Nancy's shirt and stockings soon joined Peggy's clothes in the basket, but Molly approached her shorts with some trepidation. When she'd disturbed them a moment ago they'd clinked audibly, and who knew what the girl was carrying around in her pockets?

Much to her relief the source of the clinking turned out to be nothing more than a couple of pennies and Nancy's pocket knife. She tucked the knife carefully into her own pocket; no doubt the first letter home would ask her to send it on to school, as usual, although quite what she needed it for there Molly didn't know. The pennies went in the chipped piggy bank on the dresser, then she finished emptying the pockets. When she pulled out the tatty piece of paper her first reaction was to throw it in the wastepaper basket, but then she hesitated. It was creased and grubby, but carefully folded.

Curious, she unfolded the sheet. It looked as if it had been crumpled into a ball then smoothed out again, and it was smeared with black streaks as if it had spent some time in the ashes of a fire. What might Nancy have bothered to rescue from a fire? Molly examined it, then frowned in puzzlement. It seemed to be just a shopping list, written in a clear and slightly fussy hand; it certainly wasn't Nancy's exuberant scrawl. It certainly wasn't a shopping list that hadn't been bought yet either because it was clearly meant for camp supplies, and camping was over for the year. Now, she wondered, who had written it?

Molly Blackett was as much of a chatterbox as her younger daughter, and that was all people tended to see of her. But behind her garrulous exterior was a much sharper mind than she preferred to reveal. Now she studied the short list, crossing out possibilities in her mind.

 _Bread (Two loaves)_

 _Eggs –_ _ask Susan how many_ _2 doz_

 _Chocolate (don't let Roger know)_

 _Oranges_

 _Pencils (2B? Ask Titty)_

 _3 torch batteries_

An eccentric list, but the kind she'd grown used to over summers of camping. A practical list too, of course. And a list that a process of elimination told her been written by John Walker.

She mulled it over for a few moments. She'd naturally wondered about Nancy and John, given how close they'd become over the years, but ever since they came back from that trip to the Hebrides there had been a slight reserve between them. She's never asked Jim if he knew why; perhaps it was time she did. If Nancy was hanging on to such tenuous mementoes as this, however, she appeared to have at least something of a crush on him. Like the one she herself had had on Bob Blackett when she was Nancy's age and younger?

Four days later a letter arrived from Nancy. As expected it asked for the urgent despatch of the jack knife and, bizarrely, Jim's old copy of _The Cruise of the Alerte_. Best not to ask why; no doubt the book would return sometime, with a few more dog-ears than it already had. And below Nancy's ebullient signature was a single short postscript, with one word fiercely underlined three times:

 _p.s. I hope you didn't throw out_ _ANYTHING_ _you found in my pockets._

Somehow she wasn't a bit surprised.


End file.
